Prouvaire Gets Paranoid
by symphony-regina
Summary: Such pointless, plotless ramble we have here... Jehan Prouvaire gets paranoid. Plotless drabbling...again. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.


**Disclaimer:** _The Society of the ABC is property of Victor Hugo, not me.  
---- _

It was one of Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire's most favourite kinds of days. There was a light drizzle falling from the 'celestial heavens', as he called it, like soft crystals being thrown carelessly from a beautiful fabric called clouds. The flowers turned their heads up to relish on the soft, sweet water. Jehan smiled at the view he saw from the back room of the _Café Musain_. He was supposed to be listening to Enjolras speak about the abased and the poor; but, despite the fact that he dearly wanted to listen, he could not turn his head away from the tiny droplets that were clinging onto the glass windowpane like tears to ones eyelashes. Oh, how he wished he was out there in the rain dancing and writing sonnets! Oh, how he—

"Prouvaire, are you drifting off _again_?" a stern voice commanded him back into the cruel depths of reality. Jehan turned around and there he saw Enjolras, the beautiful Apollo, standing before him and glaring a glare that would scare the Satan himself. Our poor little Prouvaire, who was as shy as a fledgling, wanted to cower back into the plush of his chair and, most of all, fly back into his sanctuary of dreams.

But still, not answering to Enjolras was like poking a sleeping dragon. In other words, it was very, _very_ dangerous and should not be attempted. "No, Enjolras, I wasn't. I—" he wanted to say something else, to elaborate his lie, but the words stopped dead at his throat and choked him. So, instead of finishing the sentence he simply turned red and avoided eye contact with him and the rest of the _Amis_, who were also staring at him.

Combeferre, though, seemed to take a little pity on him and moved over to rest a hand on Jehan's shoulder. "Now Enjolras, you can't blame poor Jehan here. He just thinks better when he's not focusing on the speaker, I'm sure." Combeferre was always the pacifist of the group, always calming the fights and settling the brawls. Jehan threw a look of pure gratitude over to the bespectacled man, who ignored him, intentionally or by accident, he was not sure of, and sat back down.

"I suppose," grunted Apollo, who then muttered something about the 'dreamy kind' that Jehan did not quite get. Courfeyrac, who was standing next to him, smiled mischievously and shook his head.

Jehan sighed. This wasn't something unusual; he was used to being 'picked' on…that is, if you can call eight twenty-some year old men subtly taunting the dreamy one 'picking on'. By now he should have gotten used to this kind of thing, he should have known that they secretly cared about him on the inside, but no, his poet's soul was far too sensitive for that kind of thought. 'They really must hate me,' he thought and gripped the pen that was in his hand tightly. Was it his fault that he was the youngest member of the _Les Amis_, even younger than the twenty-two year old Enjolras? No, it wasn't. No one seemed to understand him. Combeferre, the man who just stood up for him, didn't count because he stood up for everyone. 'Do they really hate me..?'

By the time he had found his way out from his dark reverie of thought Enjolras was finished with his speech and was now sitting down with a book about General Lamraque in his hands. The whole back room seemed to become livelier and, of course, louder. "I should go ask someone about this…matter," he muttered under his breath. So, after a few minutes of prepping up his courage he slid over to where Joly (or otherwise, Jolllly), a cheerful and agreeable hypochondriac, was sitting. "Excuse me, Joly? May I have a word with you?" he finally said.

Joly was looking at his tongue with one of his many pocket mirrors and proclaiming that he now had a cold. "What? Oh, Jehan… I see that you aren't wearing a jacket today, why, you could catch a cold like me! It's almost the cold season you know, and—"

"Um, Joly? May I?" he cut in. Joly was a medical student and used whatever knowledge he learned from university to diagnose himself with new kinds of diseases. It was terribly annoying at first but then you learned to love it as a part of the agreeable person that is Joly.

The doctor-to-be smiled bashfully and closed his pocket mirror, motioning for Jehan to continue. He took the cue and stiffed himself up. "Do you think…d-do you think th-that you…I mean, the group of us… Do you think that you people h-hate m-m-me?" Oh lovely, he was flustered again. He _thought_ he had prepared himself for this, but no, he let himself down again.

The other man stared at him for a while, slowly placing his pocket mirror back into his pocket, before saying, "Why would you ever ask that, Prouvaire?" Normally he would not refer to Jehan by his surname, which was quite frightening. Jehan replied with a shrug.

Silence seemed to embrace the two.

"I don't hate you, Jean Prouvaire, we're friends. Everyone here's your friends." There was a pause and a thoughtful look consumed Joly's pale face. Once again there was a most uncomfortable silence between the two and it felt like years before Joly spoke up again. "You've been over thinking things, haven't you?"

Jehan stared at Joly, unsure of what to say. So, to fill up the silence he came up with the most intelligent answer of, "Eh?"

'Oh dear, Prouvaire, you should stick to poems instead of talking,' he thought and looked down on the floor shamefully. Just what he needed: more shame.

A small chuckle erupted from Joly's lips as he played with his cane (which he used to make himself look smarter, not because he could not walk well). "Were you thinking about what Enjolras says? Oh come now, Jehan, you're better than that! You know how Enjolras is…he demeans everyone. I'm the useless hypochondriac (which I am not, I assure you); Courfeyrac is the immoral womanizer; Grantaire is the pathetic drunk who sees the green fairy and so on and so on… Don't over think things, it'll only make things worse." Joly smiled and looked thoughtful, and, for a moment he looked rather handsome.

…wait… Jehan was a boy! He wasn't supposed to say those kinds of things to _other_ boys. He looked aghast, but thankfully Joly was too busy muttering about the pneumonia inducing weather to notice how his friend was feeling at that very moment. 'Ugh…' Could this day get _any_ worse?

He muttered his thanks to his friend and sat back at his original table, alone. He felt only slightly better, feeling comforted by his 'friend' and all. But he wasn't satisfied. He stared past his disarranged brown locks and at his ink stained hands, confused and rather alone despite the fact that he was in a room with eight friendly individuals. A sigh escaped his girlish lips. He had a lot to think about.

By seven 'o clock most of the _Amis_ had left, but not Jehan. He was there staring at the darkened sky with a pen in one hand and sheet of crumpled paper in the other. He was still, of course, thinking about what Joly had said to him just an hour ago. He wanted to turn around and ask him some more questions but, sadly, he had already left in fear of catching any more diseases. Bossuet had left too, because Joly had dragged him along. Courfeyrac scurried off to chase after a pretty lady. Enjolras had returned back to his apartment to study. Bahorel decided to go to another café to gamble. Grantaire was in the corner sleeping off his excess of absinthe (and no one would dare interrupt his nap). Feuilly was forced to go to a night job because no one wanted to buy fans in autumn and he had to feed his brothers and pay rent. It was only him, Combeferre and Grantaire.

At the thought of all his friends leaving him he felt rather dejected, like no one wanted him as a friend. Then, out of no where, a wet tear fell down his soft face, slowly, like the rain drops fell onto the cold window.

The tear was like some sort of alarm signal for Combeferre, who, despite having the thickest glasses around, could see anyone in distress. Said man put down his law book and sat down next to Jehan. "What's the matter now, dear Jean?" he asked in a motherly tone. Jehan felt like he was a baby crying to his mother.

He wiped the tear with his sleeve and stared at Combeferre. "Nothing. It's really nothing at all." He didn't stumble with his words this time, he felt comfortable when he was with Combeferre…a man anyone could trust.

The other man raised one eyebrow and stared at him with gentle sort of severity. "Nothing?" he repeated. "I don't see grown men cry for no reason." There was a pause as he pushed up his spectacles and adjusted the positioning of his chair. "Joly…he told me that you've been 'over thinking' things. Am I correct or is his cold affecting his speech and memory?" A small smile accompanied that.

Jehan couldn't help it, the smile was contagious. "Well, I s'pose you could say that." He cleared his throat and adjusted his cravat. "Why do you care about this in the first place?" He was genuinely interested, but tried to keep a tone of annoyance in his boy-man voice.

Combeferre shook his head. "You're the youngest member in our group…you're only twenty; so naturally many people would be picking on you because you're the most naïve of us all. You like poetry and you dress—" An uncomfortable pause. 'I dress badly, yes?' Jehan thought. He had been told several times that he dressed like a sickly romantic. "--well, you're just innocent," he finished with a satisfied nod of the head, his brown curls bobbing.

Some realization dawned on him. "Is that why?" he asked in a small voice. Enjolras was only trying to protect him? Everyone else was just babying him? That was just sickening, that was. "You…you think I'm inexperienced in politics?"

"No, Jean, of course not!" the medical student exclaimed defensively. "You're just as good as any of us, maybe even better. You see, it's a reflex that some people have… Ergo, people treat you differently. _Mon dieu_, Prouvaire, you're so paranoid. You think that we hate you for being you?" Jehan felt like he was shrinking.

"Oh…is that so?"

Combeferre nodded his head slowly. "I should get going now," he finally muttered, checking his watch. "Good night, Jehan. We have a meeting tomorrow at noon, remember that."

And there he left Jehan, confused and pretty much alone.


End file.
